


Walls of Dreaming

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no easy way to put it, but Dean Smith can't just pack up his things and go on the road. Not if his boyfriend can't follow, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walls of Dreaming

“But I don’t even know how to use a gun."

Sam shifted, and some spare papers Dean didn’t clear away crinkled sharply underneath him. The desk was still rickety in some places, even as an upgrade for Director of Sales and Marketing. Dean had to admit he used the leather swivel chair for distinctly non-professional purposes at times. But he didn't feel much like sitting in that chair, no matter how much his body ached from the adventure they'd both had. Instead, he sat with Sam, side-by-side, with their legs dangling from the edge.

“I can teach you,” Sam offered. “My dad…” He hesitated, before continuing: “He taught me a few things.”

“Who knew a tech support dude could shoot?” Dean said, impressed.

Sam laughed, then suddenly shook his head. "What am I saying? I'm surprised you don't." 

"Right, the dreams," Dean hedged. He still was a little skeptical about _those_. "I swear, I'm torn between thinking that you're mad and need to be locked up, or that you're some kind of physic." 

"I think I was. Once—" Dean raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment "—But I'm still not sure what all happened. Besides, you saw the ghost, too! We fought it together, so we both must be crazy if you're accusing just _me_." The Sasquatch had a point. "I don't think...well,  _I_ don't believe in dismissing this whole thing out of hand. If ghosts are real, then  _other_ things must be real, too!" 

"Like vampires..." _Sam's hands wet with blood, face tight with pain, a man's startled face before the barbed wire slipped through his neck..._

Sam nodded. "I did see those, with shapeshifters and werewolves and wendigos and more ghosts and demons and even _angels_..." 

"Stop right there before you give me a coronary." Dean held his hand up, head beginning to twinge. Stress headaches were as common to him as the consistent crick in his neck or cramps in his fingers, but this one seemed to be bothering him more the usual lately. "Seriously, I might be able to wrap my head around all that urban legend mumbo-jumbo, but the last two? Seriously?" 

"It's true." Sam insisted, eyes fierce. "And we hunt all of them! Us! Travelling the country, stopping those monsters from hurting people...Dean, we're saving the world!"

_Saving people, hunting things: the family business._

"Sounds awesome," Dean agreed, then wondered,  _Awesome? Seriously, when do I even say that? And where did that weird motto pop up in my head for? Where have I heard that?_

Sam, oblivious to Dean's thoughts, stood up, as Dean took the opportunity to remove the slightly-crumpled papers and carefully lock them up in the desk. He also snatched his jacket that had been draped over the chair for the better part of the evening, slipping on. The fabric draped comfortably around his shoulders and down his back, and it almost felt good to have the familiar weight back. _Not like a leather jacket..._

But the last time he'd worn a leather jacket was...never. (Not a _real_ one, anyhow. His sister would have sent his decapitated head to PETA otherwise.)

“So it's settled,” Sam suddenly exclaimed, “let’s do it!”

“What, just quit?” Dean asked, startled. “Maybe put in a two-weeks notice…”

"Seriously? After what we just did?"

“Well, where would we live? How would we pay for it—gas, food, ammunition—heck, can we even _buy_ guns? I don’t even have a license…”

“I don’t have any family left,” Sam said. “No friends, either, and my fiancé…well, that’s over, too.” He looked at Dean. “But you? Dean—you’re one of the first ones here, and one of the last to leave. You can skip out without any problem, right?”

“Well,” Dean said, “about that…”

* * *

Dean led Sam into his apartment and watched the other man’s eyes practically bug out of his head. The curtains were drawn so the whole city was on display, with twinkling silver and red lights rushing past on the road. The steady whirr and hum of traffic always lulled Dean to sleep—not that it was particularly hard for him to close his eyes and crash after a busy day. Sometimes Dean didn’t even make it to the bed, which was the reason why a large, cushy couch took up nearly half on the front room.

But the real feature of the apartment was the kitchen. Dean was proud of the airiness and openness, the neat little spice rack, and the backsplash behind the expensive coffee machine he bought with his first paycheck. The best part, though, was the little touches added in recent months: a potted Christmas cactus, washcloths with tiny bees, dolphin oven mitts, and the pictures on the fridge. Ever since the apartment’s occupants became two instead of one, this felt like _home,_ not another place that Dean could easily sell at the end of the day when he changes companies.

Sam actually closed his eyes when the scent of flaky crust, mealy potatoes, rich cream, and tender chicken wafted into the living room. It was Thursday night, right near the end of the work week, and only one more day remained before Dean can wake up at eight—a luxury—and help mix muffin batter and fresh pie fillings. Adler was disappointed that he was taking this weekend off, but Dean had just finished the big merger and doesn’t have any other projects that desperately need attention. His boss would have to deal with it, and Dean still felt guilty that he hadn’t spent as much time at home as he should have.

The oven door closed, and Dean heard the humming of yet another atrocious rock song.

_Cas._

“I told you I was on the cleanse!” he shouted good-naturedly, throwing his jacket over the couch.

“And I told you I wasn’t listening to you, it’s unhealthy, and if you just join me in my morning runs—” Cas looked up from checking on the chicken pot pie, then paused. “I didn’t know we were expecting company.”

Sam stared at Cas. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say Sam was giving Cas the usual slack-jawed look most people got when they strode up to the front counter of the bakery, but it’s something else. Sam’s eyes were narrowed, intensely focused, almost wary—suspicious, even.

“You’re…?”

“Yes?” Dean frowned. “Is that a problem?” Heart sinking, he wondered if he should have even brought this stranger into his home. Dean never invited anyone from work here, and now remembered why.

But for some reason, Dean thought he could trust Sam…

“Oh, no, but this—” Sam sort of gestured at Cas, still hovering over the stove, “settles half of the office bets. Um. I mean…”

Dean rolled his eyes. He knew the talk; he knew some of the people he has to meet give him lingering once-overs; and he knew how open he is about talking _Project Runway_ and dressing with a lot more color and patterns than many of the guys, never mind that those things aren’t exactly pinpoints to sexuality. This verbal confirmation didn’t exactly soothe his nerves.

“I don’t exactly try to hide my sexuality, but I’m the type who likes to keep their personal life private. For this reason.”

“Sorry.” Sam muttered. “You must think I’m an ass, I just—”

“As long as it’s not a problem…”

“No, of course not, it was just…unexpected. But I’m not bothered. Not at all.”

“I hope not.” Dean can tolerate a lot of crap, but if Sam ever insulted Cas…

If anyone hurt Cas...

_A tire iron swung, in a moment of desperation. Stumbling back at a grunt of pain, brief triumph coupled with fear welling up inside of him. But the fear overtook him as the man rose, with a chastising, "Dean, Dean, Dean..."_

An obnoxious beeping broke the silence.

“Dinner’s ready,” Cas finally said, with a tense sort of smile. “Anyone hungry?”

* * *

Dinner was surprisingly not awkward. It felt weird having a third person sitting at the table, but as soon as Cas began telling a funny story about deciding to draw pentagrams on devil’s food cakes the same time a few nuns came into the shop, Sam laughed so hard that he nearly choked on his mouthful of pot pie. They all quickly made easy small talk, even though Dean noticed that Sam deliberately avoided talking about his family or life before his recent gig at Sandover. Instead, Sam filled the air with anecdotes about tech support antics, including the number of times he’s used the classic _have you tried turning it off, then on again?_ line.

Dean joined in, talking about how the curly-haired guy next door was invested in some anime about two brothers and metal magic: "he watches it during lunch break while pretending to type, and Adler keeps commenting on how _industrious_ he is during meetings; it's so annoying."

Sam added, "Someone always has to come down and fix his computer every week because the website he’s binge-watching it on has a million pop-ups that have viruses attached."

As Dean opened his mouth to comment, an obnoxious, rip-roar of a neighbor’s engine cut him off. "Nothing like the quiet purr of a Prius," Dean bemoaned.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Am _not._ I just don’t see the value in big old boats.”

Cas went through the usual protests, ignoring Sam’s look of bemusement and Dean’s usual eye-roll: “It’s a classic car—“

“That’s terrible for the environment—“

“I’m not saying I’d buy it, but if it _were_ energy efficient—“

“Which it isn’t—"

“It looks cool.”

“It’s just impractical! I don’t need to prove that I’m a man by driving around in a huge phallic symbol. Besides, those things don’t have seatbelts!”

“We can add them—"

“And how much would that cost? The mechanics will rob you, and I know next to nothing about cars.”

“Oh, you can afford it.”

“There are better ways to spend our hard-earned money.”

“I _was_ thinking about replacing the oven in the bakery,” Cas mused. “We’re getting picking up the local high school crowd, so we might need a bigger one in the future…”

“You own a bakery?” Sam asked.

Cas’ face lit up, and Dean smiled at his quiet enthusiasm. “Just recently, yes. It’s mostly breakfast pastries and pies, but we’ve also started making soup and sandwiches and chili. We even started a garden in the back for fresh vegetables. Dean’s the one who actually was my first supporter.” He then smiled warmly at Dean, who felt his ears heat up.

“Uh, well, Cas is a really great baker,” Dean interjected proudly. “His place is called Taste of Heaven, right near here. Cas started it about a year ago. It’s where my muffins come from.”

Sam retorted, “I’m surprised you eat anything besides salad.”

“Believe me, I’ve been trying to tell him that the reason he swoons like a Victorian lady with her corset too tight is because he doesn’t get another protein.”

Dean scowled, even when Cas playfully tousled his hair. “I just get caught up in work…”

“I still remember the day you fainted in the middle of our first conversation…”

Sam snorted. “Really? Is _that_ how you met?”

“It was quite a first impression,” Cas joked, then innocently asked, “How did you meet Dean? Did he collapse in your presence, too?”

Sam gave Dean an unsure glance.

“Uh, we just started talking in the elevator,” Dean said, which was true enough, “and I guess we found out that we had more in common than we thought.”

“Like what?”

“Well, we both like…” Dean racked his brain. He wanted to say _hunting,_ but Cas knew Dean never grown up where there were animals wandering about, besides cats and dogs.

“Mythology,” Sam quickly jumped in. “Like ghosts.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. Not both, _one_ , and Dean wondered how Cas is able to do that. “Really? I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts, Dean.”

“Well…it’s more of a hobby. A recent one.” Dean hedged, taking a second helping for something to do with his hands. “It’s just interesting, you know, to explore and find out some of the history behind different people’s lives. And the different, uh, ways you can defeat them. Like iron.”

Which is true: Dean kind of liked hearing the crazy stuff that resulted in Sandover becoming severely pissed off.

And actually fighting that ghost…

He had changed clothes back in the office and washed his face and arms as well as he could in the bathroom sink, but the stench of ash and blood still clung to him. Dean can still remember the burst of elation as the iron swung right through the ghost, the heart-thumping second-by-second plan, and the way his legs trembled and his chest lightened, like the way he got after a five-mile run. A strange, light high, triumphant, and the soreness didn’t matter—it was like a badge of honor. Success.

It was like nothing he'd ever felt before. 

Dean let the conversation meander back to office gossip.

* * *

 “So, how are you going to tell him?”

Dean quickly glanced at the still-dark bedroom, and lowered his voice. “Tell him what?”

Sam sighed impatiently. “We talked about this in the office—quitting Sandover, traveling the country…”

“Hunting ghosts? Yeah.” Dean sighed. “I’ll admit it, Sam. I haven’t felt that kind of rush until now. But the more I think about it….” He waves his hand. “I have a life here. I’m not just tech support with nowhere else to go. I’m _Director_ at Sandover, and Cas and I, we’re—” Dean hesitated. He hasn’t even brought this up to Cas yet…

“Like I told you: you’re not some corporate douchebag! Look at this stuff you have—” Sam gestured to the open space, the high windows and leather couch and ventless fireplace. “You have an entertainment system like something out of _Star Trek_. When’s the last time you used it, huh? I hear other things in the office: that you've made friends with the night crew, that you hardly eat or drink anything besides coffee and that weird cleanse thing, that you sometimes even sleep in your office overnight. Is that what you want to do with your life?”

“No.” Dean admitted. “No, I don’t.”

“Then tomorrow morning, just walk out of your job. Come on the road.”

“What do you want me to do with Cas?” Dean hissed. “Make up some bullshit excuse? Sam, he just got his first business up and running, and we just started living together—“

“How do you know he’s even real?” Sam snapped back. “What if he’s like Madison?”

“Cas is _nothing_ like your ex-fiance. What if you dialed wrong, or she changed her number? Did you think of that?” Dean sighed. “Cas is real. You saw him here.”

Sam winced. “Dean, I don’t want to have to say this again—”

“Well, don’t,” Dean snapped, but this time, panic started to bubble inside his chest—the dreams of Cas with a jagged knife stuck in his bloodless chest, wings being wrapped around him, and heat, hotter than Las Vegas, where he’d went when he was twenty-one. Or _did_ he actually go? “Look, I know you think Cas isn’t—isn’t a part of my life, but you have to understand; I’ve known him for months—how could you say he doesn’t exist—”

“Dean,” Sam said, almost sadly. “It’s the angels.”

“Angels? Angels don’t exist.”

“Yes, they do. They’re not all fluffy wings and halos, either—they’re…well, you said—I mean Dream-You said, they were dicks. But powerful ones—they can destroy a lot of things, and you—not _you-you_ —also told me Cas sent you back in time.”

Dean shook his head, forcing out a laugh. “Cas? _My_ Cas? I’d guess in my sappiest moments I’d call him an angel, but—”

“You were sent back to see the deal our mom made. Listen—I know here, I was raised by my dad, John, and you by Bobby and Ellen—but back there, we were brothers, and our mom died. She was killed by a demon with yellow eyes. And I died, too—it’s a long story—but you sold your soul for me and went to Hell—”

 _Screams. Blood. Wings._ “But…”

“Cas pulled you out. He saved you. And he’s…he’s one of those dick angels—a warrior of God—he’s nearly a stranger to us both, distant and scary-powerful and _knows_ things—”

“But Cas isn’t some supernatural asshole!” Dean insisted. “He’s human, mortal, whatever—and he _is_ a soldier, a soldier from overseas, and I met him on my second day at Sandover, and he was living in a crap apartment and trying to petition for his meds—”

He found himself scrambling to tell Sam every memory they had together, as if they’d slip away: how he and Cas talked for several weeks, how he invited Cas out to lunch when Dean first got promoted, how they spent hours walking and laughing in the local park, how Cas first came over to Dean’s place and made blueberry pie, how Dean managed to convince him to accept a start-up fee for the bakery, how Cas packed his bags and moved in, how they looked from the fire escape to see the traffic below on their first night…

Sam interrupted: “Dean, your memories are clearer than mine, I admit—I don’t know why—” He held up a hand before Dean could protest: “But if you know Cas—”

“Damn right, I do!”

“Then, what’s his hometown?”

Dean paused, but it felt as if his heart had stopped in mid-pump. “I…I’m sure he told me, a long time ago…”

“Did you ask him where he was stationed? What about his family, friends, college, other places he lived—”

“I didn’t ask about the war; I thought it would be too painful for him, but I know he struggled with his family—said they all had differences…”

“What kind of differences?”

“I –I don’t know—I—”

“Dean, what’s _Cas_ even stand for? What’s his last name?”

“He never…” _I never…_

Maybe Cas wasn't a nickname. Maybe it was an obscure name. Maybe Cas didn’t tell Dean his real name, because he was running from family or his past—but a last name?

Had Cas even told him his last name?

Dean sank down on the coffee table. He felt like a fool. Sam had been trying to tell him this, but Dean hadn’t thought that Cas wasn’t who he said he was. A _different_ Cas, a stone-cold soldier, one who probably never looked at Dean the way this Cas did…

“You know, in my dreams,” Sam confessed, voice softening, “you two were in love. I didn’t think you knew, but…”

Dean closed his eyes, trying to fight back tears. “I know.”

* * *

He let Sam sleep on the couch for the night, and even when Dean entered his bedroom, he could still hear the man's snoring.  _Sammy's always been as loud as he is when he's awake,_ Dean thought ruefully, then stopped. What had that come from? 

But as soon as his head touched the pillow, Dean began to drift, mind still whirling. After the talk with Sam, he now started remembering things, too, like a man—no, not a  _man—_ lifting him up by his throat, laughing, voice raspy but sickeningly-sweet, humming,  _Dean, Dean, Dean._ There was pain swallowing him up, burning, then wetness up to his arm.  _Blood._ The same voice, chuckling,  _the first seal._ And there was horror—the kind that knocked you flat on your back and not even letting you gasp for air, just wanting you to shut your eyes, forever... _I can't do this. I'm not strong enough..._ Machines beeping, someone waiting for him to wake up again, but no, no, he wouldn't—he can't—

But Dean heard something else, something that yanked him out of his dreaming state, a familiar litany of muttered pleading, begging, and weeping. 

"Cas!" Dean hissed, shaking him by the shoulder. "Cas, wake up!"

Cas, after more groaning and shivering, did. Instead of sitting up, Cas simply stayed limp on his side of the bed, damp with sweat. His eyes were wet, and Dean tried to rub the tears away with his thumb. “The things they made me do…” Cas whispered.

“Shhhh,” Dean soothed, “it’s all right—”

“No, it’s not all right. I’m a monster.”

 _His superiors._ Cas never talked about them, what he did in the army— _the army that might not have existed,_ something whispered—but Dean knew that what memories Cas had of it all haunted him, day and night, whether it was a car outside backfiring or someone shouting furiously on the street. He would wake Dean up, pleading about saving babies, towns, people. But whatever they made him believe or do, Dean knew one thing: “No, Cas, never, you're no monster.”

Cas furiously shook his head. His chin was trembling. “I betrayed her.” 

"Betrayed who?" 

"Anna...I don't...I let them take her, and I...she's being tortured, because of _me..._ " 

Dean could only hold Cas, who slowly began to calm down and close his eyes. 

“Did I wake you up?” That was Cas, considerate of Dean, even when recovering from traumatic flashbacks. 

Dean kissed Cas on his forehead, feeling as if he was doing this for the first time. “No, I was…already sort of awake. Don't worry about me.”

“I’m sorry. Dean, are they working you too hard?"

“No, it’s fine. Insomnia and all, too much coffee, I guess." Hoping to get the topic off of him, Dean asked, “When’s your next appointment?”

“Next Saturday. Afterwards, we can have lunch at the bakery, and you can be my taste tester for this blueberry-lemon tart I'm experimenting with.”

Suddenly, Dean felt self-loathing, weariness, and an ache so powerful that it brought to mind his dreams again, “Good.” Dean’s eyes were heavy, and he rolled over on his side, facing the wall. “Good.”

“Dean? Are you sure you're okay?”

“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean said, back still turned to his boyfriend. “It’s just been…a long day, that’s all.”

Dean felt soft pressure at the back of his neck, then a ridge—Cas’ nose—nuzzling him. “Well, get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”

“You must be, too. NIght, Cas." 

"I love you." 

The silence stretched too long before Dean managed to choke out, "I love you, too." 

He laid awake that night, without getting another second of sleep. _He’s real, Dean_  told himself. _He’s real._

**Author's Note:**

> This has been floating around in my files for ages, and I was originally going to do this for my DCBB, but it didn't quite work out that way. But hope you all enjoyed anyway. Cheers!


End file.
